Body of Christ

BODY OF CHRIST

Body of Christ

By Doug Blair, Waterloo, Ontario Copyright 2013, Doug Blair Published at Smashwords

Many Places, Many Providences, Thanking the Saviour Entering Jerusalem…….

Loudly the children Sang praises at his coming, Lading the cobbles With branches of the palm.

Paying him homage With blended hearts and voices, Gracing his entrance With echoes of the psalm: “Bless’ed is he that Cometh in the Lord’s name, Jesus, Hosanna To David’s greater son!”

“Daughter of Zion, Your King is at the threshold, Bringing salvation, This meek and lowly one.”

No prancing charger To bear the Prince of Ages, Only a donkey, At peaceful, plodding pace.

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No blasting herald Announcing great deliverance, Only the simple With song, perfecting praise Bless’ed these child-like Who see their King so plainly, Bringing their problems And needs to one so kind.

Theirs is the conquest Which passes understanding.

Theirs is the Kingdom The learn’ed cannot find.

Climbing a Hill…….

I could scarce believe my ears As the Roman soldier said: “You there, stranger, lift that cross, Follow Jesus, good as dead.”

I had missed the troubled crowd, Having just come into town.

Now I pressed beneath the load, Joined to him who wore a crown.

All around humanity, Yet my thoughts were fixed on him.

Why the back ripped to the bone?

Why the cruel and thorny brim?

How he struggled to ascend!

How he laboured for his breath!

Yet I sensed his body strove T’ward the hill marked for his death.

It became a strange desire To relieve his tortured frame;

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To receive the brunt of burden, But to go on just the same.

I was reckoning in me A compassion yet unknown, While he nobly took the taunts: “Where’s your kingdom? Where’s your throne?”

Momentarily we stopped To console dear grieving friends.

In his voice was total calm, Real concern for their lives’ ends.

Then, too soon, my privilege passed.

We had come to Calvary.

“Thank you friend,” he gazed at me, Then they nailed him to the tree!

Oh, the truth welled up in me!

Could the blinded mob not see?

Here their sin’s death penalty.

Here the Crux of Destiny.

In the man from Galilee.

In my friend who hung for me.

There were two who shared his plight, Robbers, bearing each his cross.

One would hail him Lord of Light.

One would choose eternal loss.

And such love etched on his face For the dogs who pierced and nailed.

And a priestly prayer for grace, And a final psalm exhaled.

At his death the skies were dark And the crowd stood hushed and awed.

‘Neath the profile still and stark, ‘Neath the battered Son of God.

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And a soldier lowered his head With a sense of grief and shame; For the gentle one now dead, For the folk who were to blame.

And another thrust him through With a spear to his right side; Though already we all knew That the Holy One had died.

And a woman beat her breast As she looked upon her son.

And her sobs held one request, Just what evil had he done?

How was I then to expect That in three days news would ring Of the tombstone rolled away?

Of the resurrected King!

But his converts would explain That for months the rabbi said, That Messiah must be slain And then risen from the dead.

So, I give to you my joy.

From my sin I am set free!

And my praise I will employ For the one who died for me: Simon, stranger, lift that cross.

Follow Jesus good as dead.

I will follow him forever, Living for my Lord instead.

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Uniting in Prayer…….

We were there in one accord In that humble prayer room, In obedience to our Lord.

He had promised to consume All our fears and failures With the Spirit’s power; As we prayed for Father’s Promise In that hour; On the Day of Pentecost.

Jesus led us to believe It was best that he should go.

Only then could we receive What he promised to bestow In a shower of glory, Fitting us for preaching; With anointing to conform us To his teaching, On the Day of Pentecost.

How the Glory hit that room With the fire and sound of breeze!

As the One who cleared the tomb Met us there on bended knees, Speaking languages we knew not, Giving proof.

We had found the One to lead us In all truth, On the Day of Pentecost.

Fifty days after “First-Fruits” In that ancient Feast of Weeks, We were made the first recruits, By the One whom each soul seeks.

Yes the Holy Spirit gave His unction to us, That the Church of Christ might start her Campaign through us, On the Day of Pentecost.

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If we only looked to him, Our great Spirit, Comfort, Friend, He would keep us true and trim, And sustain us to the end; As the Earnest of our hope Of final glory, And the author of a growing Gospel story, From the Day of Pentecost.

We went forth in Jesus’ stead To engage in Holy War As an army Spirit-led, In a way not known before; With his Word to win a wounded World to Jesus, In the power which the Holy Ghost releases, As on the Day of Pentecost.

Between Two Worlds…….

Marcus Lividius to the Regional Superintendent: Hail Caesar!

By usual courier And in the hand of scribe Flavius Sornom. Greetings.

Wishing to report the Dispatching of a group Of Christians-Traitorous.

Infecting the Region of Mid-Appia By their pathetic community And wicked teachings Of an adverse king.

Also wishing to report Unfortunate death Of Under-commander

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Sergius Veritatus.

Mid-winter Janus patrol Of Secomd District.

Encountered small village.

Approximately thirty-five persons Varying in age and sex.

Sparsely prepared for the cold.

Foodstuffs largely dairy, coarse barley, Local plants, berries, tubers, fish salted.

Limited fuel available In region around the lake.

Evidences of their strange And bloody sect: Crosses, fishes drawn on walls of huts.

Ornate clay chalices, Parchments in possession Of their Elder, purporting To convey holy words And directives of their “Saviour”.

(A criminal, one Jesus of Nazareth, executed Under justice of Pontius Pilate, Procurator, Judea,) Clearly an affront to Caesar, The one true God! Of course, we conducted usual Examinations for signs of hostility, Sedition, witchcraft, Trade with barbarians.

Assembled all in the Village compound.

Demanded the standard Affirmation-loyalty to Caesar, Renunciation of their “Christ”.

Group seemed totally In accord with submissions, Resistance voiced by their Elder.

Elder chastised with the rod.

Physically strong man- unflinching.

Expressed his preparedness for death.

Said his master had proved Victorious over death.

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(Strange words to the ears of a soldier!) “His master, the only way, The only truth, the only life.�

Peculiar dogma.

Assembly appeared mesmerized by his address.

Commenced singing- harmony Haunting, other-worldly.

Whereupon Under- commander Sergius Veritatus manifested Irregular behaviour, suggestions of clemency.

(Had been noting Change in his outlook to duties, Since leave of absence at Rome.

Something about an encounter With other of these mongrels, Gathering secretly, underground.

Catacombs.

Said he was investigating Their activities.

Nothing came of it.)

So death was their boast?

So, death they should face.

Marched entire group Onto the lake ice.

Frigid.

Again demanded renunciation.

Nothing.

Additional waiting period.

Threatened that as reward For their rebellion, they were to be Stripped of clothing.

Left to freeze, standing on the lake.

Group huddled around their leader, And one senior couple- man and woman.

Children surprisingly quiet.

Gave the order.

Twelve foot-soldiers, spears, Compelling the group to disrobe.

Little resistance offered.

Finally, one man broke.

Ran before Sergius Veritatus, groveling.

Words of allegiance, repudiation.

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Scarcely comprehensible.

This evoked moans and wails From the group.

Some tried to sing..

Veritatus immobile, silent, That troubled countenance again.

Gave his sword to his junior.

Removed his robe, breastplate, Marching leathers, tunic, Boots.

Walking naked now To that group on the ice.

Unsound mind, obviously.

Refusing orders to rejoin ranks.

Joining their number.

Their only words: “Receive us now into glory.

Jesus is Lord.”

All frozen within the hour.

Sergius Veritatus.

Corpses dragged by horse.

Village torched.

Armour of Veritatus returned herewith, For his parents.

He had been a good centurion. Hail Caesar!

Battling Falsehood…….

With blood and breath They sealed the Oath, Though parchment bore the gist Of Covenant with Christ their King, Whose court was moor and mist.

The shields of power Had spewed a law: That every soul must heed The pulpits of the puppet-priests, By worldly throne decreed.

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But hearts enthralled

By Spirit’s touch, And cleansed with Christ’s own blood, Must have the shepherd-hearted prince To preach to them God’s Word.

Now banned from kirks And presbyteries, The faithful shepherds fled; To holy haunts on heathered hills, To preach life from the dead.

And whispers thrilled The villages, And sought the lonely farms; As secret calls to worship meant A secret call to arms.

Though empty sat The kirks of stone, And empty sat their pews; The glens and rills were filled with psalms ‘Neath grand celestial views.

And times would come Of sacrament, Of searchings-out of sin; And fateful times when king’s dragoons Would scatter to the wind.

And legends grew Of gallant men Evading musket-fire; And matrons bold who harboured them, To raise some villain’s ire.

And prophets saved By providence From Bloody Clavers’ men, Would vanish into cave or fog,

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Or stream, to preach again.

And gallows bore The testament, And prison glooms the tale; And children saw the cost of truth In those who walked death’s vale.

But still they sought The sacred heights, Where Grace did much abound; Where bleat of lamb and lilt of bird Were mixed with Gospel sound.

Still constant proved The shepherd-heart; And constant proved the flock; And faithful proved the King of Kings, ‘Midst solemn spires of rock.

Enduring Hardship…….

I hope the horse Is ably hitched.

The pine-gum is Strong and heady In this stand of trees.

And I have only The woolen saddle-blanket To keep me dry As the dew comes on.

Up this gnarled oak, With its autumn brown And orange all but gone.

The ride from the Settlement at Five Birches Was windy and cool,

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But I was oblivious.

Caught in the memory Of the noon-hour’s lesson.

With no less than Fifteen natives gathered.

Captivated by the story Of the Master blessing And breaking and passing The loaves and fishes.

Moses is getting Very convincing In the translation.

Seems they heard The tone of my voice, But followed more Eagerly his cadence And graceful hand-gestures.

Fifteen months ago it was, He stumbled into My meeting, Drunk and disorderly.

Even debilitated By the native brew, He was quick to take pity upon My then feeble efforts With the language.

No genuine conviction Of soul in him, then, But a servant’s heart.

My travel-mate and guard.

Together we watched Nursing does and young.

He excused himself Early this afternoon, Hearing of a sick cousin To the south.

I will be alone For the next eight days.

Six villages ahead.

God help me To speak the Word,

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Lovingly, earnestly.

My strangeness to them.

The village bustle, the hecklers.

I always marvel how news Precedes my arrival.

Children and elderly Usually first to sense Our good intentions.

Curious, respectful, Very patient with my Use of language.

(Moses predicted as much.)

The drawing-slate helps.

David! The moon has Broken through that cloud!

Below, the horse, still.

Slow breath steaming.

Fodder completely gone.

How does one sleep, standing?

Stiff, cramped and weak, I probably could tonight.

But inside, thoughts And memories quicken: The college, the indiscretion, The expulsion, the searching, The still, small voice Of my Lord.

And now here I am Up a tree, contented; With autumn branches Like medieval window-panes Against the night sky.

With faces and needs To lift up from That last village.

How they love to laugh.

Even in face of Deprivation, winter, sickness.

Child-like candidates for Heaven.

Moses had made some joke.

(Probably at my expense.)

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Gleefully they examined me.

Head to toe.

Perhaps the story of The bee-hive; Or the black bear Up the tree before me…

My studies, my papers, Preparation?

Given way to horse-back Prayers and sermonettes.

God, you have said That the heart must believe; The tongue must confess, That Jesus Christ is Lord.

So, I am here with Message of a Man From across the Big Water, Harvesting hearts, Honouring, hugging, Hoping for their dawn.

Leaves rustle across pebbles Like scurrying children.

Forgive me, Father, No burden tonight To watch and wait.

No throb in the chest.

No throat-lump.

No compulsion to plead.

Just an extraordinary Sense of place, Of purpose, Of privilege.

To be in this wilderness, Witness to a loving Saviour.

I pray this cough Clears from the chest soon.

Job’s Book The Thirty-Eighth, Speaks of Your majestic Authority over all The creation… the skies, The trees, changing weather,

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The ravens which cry.

And I, oh Lord, Am seen by You…now sleep.

David Brainerd, October 1745, New Jersey

Delivering Good News…….

Gang awa frae tha Glen Tae a fearsome place; Where tha darkened souls Hae na gleemps o’grace.

Where tha work must fit A new tongue and race.

Gang awa frae tha Glen for a wheel.

“Tis for certs He has ca’d Ye, and ye must roon; Tae a land o’ plagues And o’ blastin’ sun, Where tha rule o’ richt Hae just sceerce begun.

Gang awa frae tha Glen, Robbie, chile.

There be muckle tae ken O’ tha people’s need; O’ tha crops that thrive, O’ tha life they lead; O’ tha daily thirst; O’ their warfare, greed.

Gang awa frae tha Glen, and be wise.

Tho’ tha ship be worsted, Tho’ tha trail be long, Tho’ tha beasts be awful, Ye’ll arrive anon; And commence tae cant Tha sweet Gospel song.

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Gang awa frae tha Glen, in His love.

And ye’ll spot tha dee When it starts tae click.

As they bring their young, And they bring their sick; For o’ Jesus’ kind They ken nae sic lik..

Gang awa frae tha Glen, tae be used.

An’ it’s nae sa muckle That their needs ye know, Whuch’ll fan tha flame, Cause your strenth tae grow; But tha confeedence “Tis your Laird says, “Go!” Gang awa frae tha Glen, ‘til you’re gone.

Robert Moffat, Pioneer Missionary to South-west Africa

In War and in Peace…….

Yankee lad, A midnight sentry.

On the graveyard watch tonight.

In this bitter autumn campaign As our Rebels hold ‘em tight.

Fighting sleep, The soldier’s struggle, With the lives of troops at stake.

Fighting dampness, all a-shiver.

Singing, just to stay awake.

Perched on bluff, And silhouetted, With a chilly moon behind.

Easy target for my Springfield.

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Morning sun-up, corpse they’ll find.

But the song Drifts cross the valley, In his soothing baritone, Of a loving, reaching Saviour.

One, by mother’s side, I’d known.

Something of A calling Jesus; And a wanderer’s cry for peace; And one bitter night’s unloading; And the Spirit’s sweet release.

I had loved My Mama’s rendering, But I would not heed the call.

And with years of tramps and camps, since, I’ve no heart for it at all.

So tonight Oh foolish Yankee, I will put the song to rest.

With a careful eye, a long breath And a bullet through your breast.

Though sited Down the cold, gray steel, I cannot make this kill.

My trigger hand’s a-shakin’ And it isn’t from the chill.

Oh, blue-coat boy, You’re “saved” again To see the sun’s first rays.

I’ll not have Mama’s ghost, and yours, To haunt me all my days… …A million miles

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I’ve traveled since.

And countless moons I’ve seen.

A business came, prosperity.

The war seemed but a dream.

One Christmas Eve, Some long years’ thence, I chanced to be afloat.

A break from work. A change of scene.

A festive riverboat.

And word got ‘round The evening’s sport Would be a talent fair.

“The lights, the song. Oh come along.

We’ve got to see you there.”

The program came.

I went outside.

I’d no love for this day.

And aft, I watched the big wheel churn Its frigid wake away.

Another year.

Another gain.

By rights a sound success.

But like those waters swirling there, Inside I was a mess.

Too cold it was.

I joined the throng.

I sat right at the rear.

A special guest, evangelist, One Ira Sankey, here.

I’d heard the news.

I’d read the press.

His tour of Britain’s halls With Moody; their effectiveness, Their skill in Gospel calls.

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And after songs Of Yuletide hope, This tall man took the stage.

His frame so straight, his dress so fine.

A prince in any age.

And then the voice.

That baritone!

My mother’s song begins.

Not Christmas cheer; the sentry’s here To call me from my sins!

How’s this, I quake?

It must be so.

I’m here, but by some plan.

Oh Mama dear, I think that Now I understand the man!

His words so true.

His voice so rich.

God’s presence fills the place.

I’ll leave my night. I see the Son. I’m saved and by His Grace.

(A life was spared.

A song was sung.

His Christ had seen him through.

I’d heard the song. I’d come along.

And now, his Christ I knew.)

Working with Others…….

It is good to toil With the men I know; And to trim the trees And to lay them low; And to haul their bulk To the stream below; I am glad that the Lord sent me here.

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And from time to time When the mood is right, In the vaulted wood With its dappled light; Where the bluejay’s flash Quickens shrill and bright; I can sense that the Lord meets me here.

There’s a constant strain From the whistle call; As we scale the heights Making giants fall; And we swing our steel And our chain and maul.

And I know that the men test me here.

But the dusk does come, And the campfires burn; And the grub is good, And our thoughts will turn To the ones at home, And for those we yearn; But for weeks we must still labour here.

Yet another time The alarm will sound; That a trunk has split; That a man is downed.

And like mother birds We all gather ‘round.

And I sense they are glad I am here.

Then the Sabbath day Brings some extra rest; And a few will come, And by that I’m blessed; And we search the Book, And I share Christ’s best; For the Lord of the harvest is here.

Oh shantymen sing!

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In the golden field; In the fishing hull; In the mineshaft’s yield; In the factory’s pulse; Sing of grace revealed; And the joy of the Lord finds us here.

Gathering the Flock…….

The man of God had made his plans.

He’d crossed the rolling blue.

His tent was raised.

His posters out.

And all the churches knew, That he was blessed with seed-faith power And healing for the weak.

And now Australia was his goal, A soul-harvest to seek.

But troubled times had hit the isle, As Labour made demands.

Their pickets set.

Their tempers raised.

And now perhaps their plans Would take them “to the Yank’s church-show”, White-collars there to find.

A ruffian bunch all dressed in blue, With foul-play on their mind.

Now those in suits and fancy hats Already held their place.

The orchestra Was warming up To play “Amazing Grace”.

And backstage still, the man of God Was praying with his crew.

(The audience were getting loud.

Was this what Aussies do?)

Then bursting in upon the prayer,

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A helper spoke with fear; That groups of men, Truckloads of them, Were standing in the rear.

And searching ‘round for business folk Who set their work and wage.

What now to do? Just call things off?

The preacher took the stage.

The big tent was so quiet You could hear a small pin fall.

The man of God Spoke well-wishing To visitors, one and all.

The singers, leafing for the hymn, To set a joyful mood.

But then, the crash, the curse, the crush; The platform rushed and “booed”.

The place of praise and promise Became a bedlam-den.

As women screamed, And chairs were smashed, And men stood up to men.

Then all around the seed-faith man They formed a loyal guard, Which rushed him out the canvas flaps, And drove him from the yard.

Three nights they tried to quell the tide Of devilry and hate.

That doubt might see Integrity, That mischief might abate.

While outside, tabloids mocked the work And heckled healing grace.

Were love and light and being right Ill-suited to this place?

The plane trip home, a troubled one, As souls were searched and pained.

Had they been wrong?

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And missed God’s will?

Had nothing good been gained?

But back on Aussie soil, a move Of God’s own grace was stirring.

As blue and white each saw their wrongs, Conviction was occurring.

A year would pass before a man Of slightly different sort, Would fly again To Aussie-land, And gain a good report.

As thousands flocked to Gospel rest, Their stress and strife all through.

The telegram brought Billy’s news: “Dear Oral, our thanks to you!”

Singing the Praises of Jesus…….

A matchless joy Crossed his face, As he pulled out the piano bench, Cracked the spine of the hymnal, Cracked his fingers for good measure, And, taking one long breath, Looked around the parlour For harmony helpers; To begin.

Sunday evening service Had been a special one.

Visitors were welcomed; And invited to share Any words of encouragement.

Pastor’s wife had read The scripture portion: Something from Colossians, Christ, by whom all things consist.

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She always managed To make the Word of God Sound conversational, Personal, promising.

Truly, God’s love- letter To the heart of each listener.

Elder Jamieson led us in prayer: “Larger hearts, Lord; greater challenges, Greater assurances through the blood of Jesus.”

Pastor’s son told us Of his recent experience in travel.

Church conference in Halifax.

One free night out.

The restaurant, the old man In the corner booth.

The gentle inclusion of him In their conversation. His past losses, And the light of Christ dawning gently.

The message had been delivered with power: “The Two Shortest Verses”.

“Jesus wept.”

“Rejoice evermore.”

What an exchange! His tears, our joy.

The Gospel reduced to four words.

How the preacher could illustrate the story With colour, place, mood, insight, Weaving it all together.

And now, the “seventh-inning stretch”.

Making our way to the parlour My favourite part, hearty choruses, Gathered around Sandy’s piano.

Word was, it had had its Fifteenth re-tuning.

The soul-focus of many A crisp Christmas, bright Easter, Baptism and Thanksgiving.

Sandy was its fourth Master of the Ivories.

Ruddy, compact, middling-height, Powerful forearms and grasp.

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Joyful lover of the Cross, Pentecost, the Lord’s Table, Healing.

Friend of many a hurting one.

Visitor when the chips were down.

Showing Christ in shoe-leather.

For the first few pieces, It seemed as if Madge’s beautiful Soprano carried us through.

Then came “Power in the Blood”, “He is All You Need”, “Jesus Set Me Free”.

(Friends catching on now with gusto.

Sandy’s power and flair evident.)

“He’s Coming Back on a Silver Cloud of Glory”.

“Leaning on the Everlasting Arms”.

The change came with Barry’s tenor solo: “It Matters to Him About You” The emotion soon flowed from the group.

Uninhibited, sincere, thankful.

Individual voices lost in the blend.

“There is Room at The Cross for You”, “Amazing Grace”, “What a Friend We Have in Jesus”, “He Was There All the Time”.

Sandy’s final notes lifted the hall in magic.

Thus it was for five years of college.

That small town in the valley.

My brother and I walking home, ‘Neath the stars; message and music And ministry glowing in our hearts.

Then graduation, and I to my students, And he to the Christless poor Across the sea.

And each with a “parlour piano.” .

Persecuted…….

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Back of the factory, Just past the clamour, Out of the range of Chisel and hammer; In the apartment Up on the third floor; End of the hallway, Room three-oh-four; Sonya cooks dinner.

Red sun is setting Over the roof-tops.

Bicycles clattering, Work of the day stops.

Labour retreats through Streets filled with litter.

Muffled, they peddle, As cold winds grow bitter.

Vladimir comes home.

Quick is the kiss And quick the unraveling.

Nothing of news At work or in travelling.

Dinner is ladled, Hot broth and some bread. “Markets are rationed�, The papers have said.

Dishwater friends still.

Two chairs are nestled Beneath the one light.

All shades are drawn down To keep out the night.

Pictures of children Adorn the end wall.

Off at the State-School Since early this fall.

How they are missed!

Telephone rings!

The voice of the Pastor:

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“Prayer group was raided!

A tragic disaster!

Three brothers taken To Heaven knows where.

Wives are quite frantic.

Please lift them in prayer.”

Again, it happens.

Outside the chimes Are striking eleven.

Church-turned-museum Hurls rude sounds to Heaven.

Inside the couple Kneel down by their bed, Pull out the box where Their Bible is hid, And plead their cause: “Father in Heaven Bring peace to our friends.

Release our brethren From tormentors’ hands.

Thy Kingdom cometh.

We long for that day.

Keep our hearts watchful And holy, we pray, In Jesus’ name.”

These are the soldiers At front-line of war, Hurting in battle As often before.

Doctrines of devils Resist the Good News.

Claiming their Program Brings much wiser views To rule the land.

“Jesus, sustain us Until you return!

Proud, plotting nations Have so much to learn!

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Godlessness grows in The push and the shove.

Risking our all, we Will show forth your love!

And trust in you.”

Serving in Love…….

Older Woman to an acquaintance after service: Wasn’t that a service?

Didn’t praises ring?

Couldn’t miss the Spirit.

How that choir can sing!

Weren’t the children eager, Coming at their time?

Marvel how that teacher Keeps those kids in line!

Wasn’t that a challenge For the mission field?

Have to raise the money For a heathen yield!

Wasn’t that a sermon?

Could have raised the dead!

Have to get a copy.

Must know all he said.

Wasn’t that a prayer line?

Elders all in white.

When will Sister Sarah Ever get her sight?

Wasn’t that a grand call At the closing hour?

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Preacher got three sinners ; Fell beneath the power.

Really, dear, so quiet; All’s not well with you?

Tell me, girl, your problem; Quickly now, we’re through.”

Younger Woman, thinking to herself: (Oh that I had someone With the heart to show How to keep my husband, When he wants to go.

How my son is hurting, Failing at his school.

Only needs some guidance.

Really, he’s no fool.

Landlord gave me notice.

Have to leave my flat.

Are the foreign missions Only where it’s at?

Job is getting tricky.

Boss is always right.

Can’t betray my problems.

Mustn’t seem uptight.

Heart and soul are hurting.

Is there no relief?

But the truth, we’re skirting, As it’s time to leave.

Preacher’s at the doorway, Shaking hands good-bye.

Couldn’t interrupt him.

Couldn’t bear to cry.)

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And then speaking to the other: “Really, there’s no problem.

God’s still on His throne.

How I praise and thank Him For this fine church home.

Yes that was some service.

Time just goes so fast .

See you Tuesday evening At the ladies class…”

Setting the Captive Free…….

I’ll have to think about it.

Something is happening here.

This morning, H Block’s exercise period, East-side fitness yard.

Usual pick-up basketball, Games of catch, Half-hearted aerobics.

Twenty minutes out.

Kipper got into trouble.

Dealer Kipper, old-timer, The Joint’s entrepreneur.

Smokes, bandages, magazines, canned treats.

(No rumours of hard stuff.)

Went long for a pass.

Still pretty fit.

Lost track of where he was; Barreled into Dutch’s corner.

Dutch, the Man. Protection boss. Double-lifer.

Hand in every trick in the Joint.

Favours, payments, or else.

No love lost between the two.

(Something about a disputed “tariff”.)

Dutch’s corporals, Lonzo, Turk and Kruger Slammed him against the chainlink.

Flurry of arms, feet and

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Shimmering steel.

Kipper, down, motionless, Twisted in frightening posture.

Bleeding from the nose, throat, shoulder.

Hands on the abdomen.

“Doc, get over here, now!”

Call me Doc. (Short stint as a para-medic In Philadelphia.

Before the armed robbery career.)

The scene, heavy: Guts spilled, shoulder perforated.

Expert shiv work.

Tower guards not moving.

Kipper, unresponsive to my efforts.

Five terrible minutes.

Buddy pressing torn jacket against open wounds.

No vital signs; plodding C.P.R. Somewhere behind me Voices- the guards?

Sounds like praying.

Parson Eddy on the scene With his hallelujah bunch.

Bible class-“born-againers”.

I step back.

Circle of prayer moves in: “We rebuke death.

Devil, Kipper will not be taken!

Raise him, Lord, raise him.

For your glory.”

Variations on this rap continue.

Hands on our fallen friend.

Three guards, Ed, Nelson and Donny At the periphery, With the stretcher, Watching.

“Devil, you have already lost.

Our Lord whipped you at Calvary.

We rebuke you, in Jesus’ name.

We plead the blood of Jesus.

Lord, now, like Lazarus.

Bring him back.”

And then it happened.

I swear it.

Kipper inhaled.

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Long and beautiful.

A smile graced the bloody lips.

The rascal-eyes blinked open.

Alive! Jesus!

Had to be thirty-five men around, Between us and Dutch’s Dark corner.

Bible class will never be the same.

Stretcher work underway.

Eddy’s hand placed on my shoulder: “Check out John Chapter Eleven, Doc, John Chapter Eleven.”

Fanning the Flame…….

Godlessness, recoiling, Strikes again the blow.

Jesus’ name is slandered.

Lord, that they might know.

(He is all the glory.

He is all the praise.

He is all the answer, For these restless days.)

Fear of God is lacking.

Love of Christ is rare.

Churches hide their candle.

Do they really care?

“Men are all-sufficient;” So the journals sing.

(Why need we a “saviour”?

Strange, out-dated thing.)

Still the candle flickers, Touching one by one, Hearts that seek for better,

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Hearts that hear the Son. Stop the superficial!

Stop the sad parade!

There is not a blessing, But that God has made!

He will soon take action, Laying bare men’s games.

Burning through the nations With revival’s flames!

Then Christ gets the glory.

Then the ransomed sing.

Then awakened men see God in everything.

Lord, please send revival!

Send the latter rain!

Holy, happy wonders In our midst again.

His Very Own…….

Better the storm with Jesus, Better the wind and waves.

Better the strain at sea, than Comfort the worldling craves.

Better the toil with Jesus, Better the cost of love.

Better his servant’s wage, than Riches from push and shove.

Better the shame with Jesus, Better the sneers and scorn.

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Better the world’s reproach, than Praise of the Devil born.

Better the trial with Jesus, Better the laboured prayer.

Better the night of faith, than Shallow days free from care.

Better the cross with Jesus, Better the wounded side.

Better the taken hurt, than Hurt given back in pride.

Better the grave with Jesus, Better the death to self.

Better the Father’s will, than Comfort and praise and wealth.

Better the life with Jesus, Better the hope of gain.

As with him we may suffer, So with him we shall reign!

Proclaiming Resurrection…….

Just one word, Yet it released me From the heaviest dismay, In the resurrection garden Where I heard my Saviour say Just one word: “Mary”.

Just one soul, So undeserving, And besieged by demon power; Now become his little garden And expected yet to flower.

Just one soul: Mary.

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Just one gift, Has changed the history Of the followers of Christ.

Bless’ed blood’s redemption mystery, We need never pay sin’s price.

Just one gift: Calvary.

Just one hope To light the future, And the world must know it yet, Ere the lover of the sinner Treads again on Olivet.

Just one hope: Jesus.

Just one life Now worth the living, And its thrill will never wane.

Bearing witness to his rising And his coming back again.

Just one life: Jesus.

Keeping in Remembrance…….

You have much To be thankful for, As you boil your leftovers And wait for the Bathroom wax to dry.

The boy is out Doing his deliveries, And Connie is late At school with her project.

Ted will phone Tonight from Calgary.

He has been so Tired these last few weeks.

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But the Company Has a new customer.

Big one…out west.

He’s the senior driver.

Still you’re lonely, Veronica.

And the bills are there.

In various colours.

Beckoning.

From the top of the fridge.

Hang in there, girl.

Everyone will be home This weekend.

And Saturday dinner Is planned with Kate And her fiancé.

Remember how your Sister came to your Kitchen table.

And cried that Frank Wanted to call it off, After eighteen months.

Remember how the Two of you Had really prayed.

For guidance, for healing.

(She the seasoned Career girl.)

Remember four summers Ago, Veronica.

When you had had Your own doubts about Ted. The phone calls, late nights, And feeble explanations.

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Remember at the Last school, your boy’s Circle of tough friends.

The merchandise hidden In the basement.

The constable’s visits.

How Ted had taken Him out of school To share a six- day run To Chicago, Kansas City And Saskatoon.

How they had really talked.

Remember, Connie’s Trouble with the cysts.

And she just getting Used to female issues.

The scary first diagnosis.

And the kind second doctor.

Remember your Dad’s Last six months.

Woeful widower.

Deathly quiet apartment.

Ted’s insistence on the many visits.

Healing the old hurts.

Remember your Dad’s Hospital stay.

The glorious Saturday When you finally shared “That Jesus stuff” He had so long rejected.

Yes, Veronica, Remember, would you?

It hasn’t been easy, But it has been good.

And it continues With God’s help.

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In strange ways Young woman, You have been the glue, Holding it all together.

Now, for your own good, Rejoice and be thankful.

Possessing All Things…….

It’s a story That came to me, Late spring, early one Thursday evening.

We were walking The university grounds.

(Still hoofing it Or busing or taxiingNo car in the driveway.)

We had been to the Main Library.

Hilary dabbling in Huguenot history, Celtic folklore, Charles G. D. Roberts’ Animal stories for the kids.

I, following the canoe Of Grey Owl, Or the letters of My beloved Rutherford And Scottish Covenanters.

The evening was Lazy-warm and the Leaves on the maple and oak In full splendour.

The little campus stream Was trickling toward The duck pond, And the two of us Leaned on the aluminum Bridge rail,

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Arm-in-arm, silent, contented.

Watching Mother Mallard Convoy her paddling brood of nine Toward overhanging bushes.

No students passed.

(Campus population at A seasonal minimum.)

Waterloo traffic noise Muted through Surrounding wood-lots.

I was impressed by A suggestion from within: “All things are yours, And ye are Christ’s And Christ is God’s.”

(A morning’s reading Had prompted this thought Some days before…

Seems a little house-maid Worked in a large mansion.

Many rooms, exquisite.

Lots of dusting, cleaning, polishing.

She reserved a special time Each day to enter Her employer’s study to work.

There it was.

Four-by-five oil-painting Of the Scottish Highlands.

For him, “a good investment Picked up on tour overseas With his wife.

Last appraisal – hundred and twenty-five Percent jump in value.”

To the maid, this scene Was Heaven. Multi-coloured Heather, dramatic variable skies, Distant snow-capped peak, Ruddy little Highland cattle, And one old Jock following With plaidy and staff.

With such a feast for the eyes Work became a luxury,

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Day’s chores completed with joy.

Now who owned that painting?)

Hilary tapped my elbow: “This is nice, isn’t it.”

The two of us headed down The path, Fragrance of lilac from Somewhere up ahead.

DEDICATED TO THE CHRISTIAN CHURCH IN MANY TIMES, PLACES AND PROVIDENCES, SHARING EACH OTHER’S BURDENS, TRUSTING IN THE SAME CROSS AND EMPTY TOMB, ENJOYING KINSHIP THROUGH A COMMON LORD, AND TESTIFYING TO HIS VICTORIES ACCOMPLISHED AND YET TO COME.

Douglas W. Blair 20-20 Mayfield Avenue Waterloo, ON. N2J 4M5 Tel:(519) 747-1033 Email:douglasblair@rogers.com

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